


my spirit lives (in places hard to reach)

by heartsfilthylesson



Category: The Fall (TV)
Genre: Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3357740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsfilthylesson/pseuds/heartsfilthylesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She remembers how Daddy used to say they have the same eyes. It's her who sighs then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my spirit lives (in places hard to reach)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilyvalley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyvalley/gifts).



The other girls pat her shoulder and say it’s fine, it doesn't matter, most parents hardly ever show anyway but Daddy never misses a competition, he’s not like the others. He stands at the very front, his eyes on her at all times. She can feel him even when she’s not looking, when she’s focused her breathing, on her spotless backstroke. After, he buys her chocolate ice cream to celebrate if she wins and to comfort her if she doesn't.

_(He’s just late. He’s just late. He’s just late.)_

Later she blames chlorine for her red eye and accepts a trophy for first place.

-

The air is heavy with the scent of patchouli and tea but it does little to hide the smell of dust, old age and death. She berates herself for her choice of words —Nan is hardly dead, not yet anyway— and wills herself to smile for the old woman.

“If only I had known,” she sighs and lets her gaze linger on Stella. It unsettles her, makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand so she shifts on her seat and stares at her hands. The navy varnish is already chipped and she bites at her thumbnail. “Oh, my Freddie.”

(She remembers how Daddy used to say they have the same eyes. It’s her who sighs then.)

Stella wonders if she should say something, if there’s anything she could say. It’s been months, it’s not supposed to be this hard, it’s not supposed to be this painful. Moisture gathers in her eyes, pressure builds in her chest and she reaches for the elastic about her wrist. Snap, breathe, snap, breathe.

“Eat.” Nan pushes a plate of Marie biscuits toward her. “You’re looking quite thin.”

-

“Hey, Gibbo!”

There’s a forkful of lettuce halfway to her mouth and Stella all but drops it back on the bowl. She raises both eyebrows and stares at the officer who takes the seat across from her.

“Gibson,” she corrects and returns to her salad.

His expression sours instantly and he folds his arms across his chest. “I call you Gibbo, you call me Mac.” He leans back on the seat and attempts friendly but looks arrogant, as patronising as his tone. Stella feels like breaking his nose and listing his every fault but she settles for a smirk.

“I’ll use McPherson,” she sets her fork down once more and reclines, arms crossed, mimicking his stance. “You’ll use Gibson.”

-

“Why don’t we talk about your father?”

She uncrosses her legs and crosses them again, flips her hair in feigned nonchalance. Something heavy settles on her chest, the familiar weight of loss and sadness.  _Daddy Daddy Daddy_. It’s always Daddy.

“I’d rather not,” she says with a barely suppressed sigh. “Not right now.”

Her Met appointed therapist nods once and scribbles something on her pad. Pen against paper sounds thunderous in the quiet room and the urge to lean forward and snatch the notebook away is nearly overwhelming. She flips her hair again and pushes the thought away. “May I ask why?”

“I fail to see its relevance,” Stella says and glances at her wristwatch. Twenty-five more minutes before she can leave. Three more sessions before she’s cleared. She stares at the other woman, dark and beautiful and impeccably dressed, eyebrows raised and lips pursed.

She doesn’t look intimidated but doesn’t press on, either— she simply makes another note before setting the pad aside and taking off her glasses. “Of course.”

-

She’s the first who doesn’t mind Stella’s job, who doesn’t mind that she’s distant and reserved. She doesn’t ask Stella to change, only asks that she love her.

Stella’s almost sorry she can’t.

-

It’s immature and unlike her but the very obvious bitterness in McPherson’s face brightens her evening, heightens the thrill of yet another promotion: Detective Sergeant Gibson.

“Congratulations,” he says with a tight smile, sounding insincere and borderline hostile,  and offers her another drink. “I suppose you’re my superior now.”

Stella accepts the glass, whiskey neat, and takes a small sip. “I suppose you’re right.”

-

She dreams of the beach and the last victim’s face, a piercing scream and her father’s hands. A strange man, a suspect, leads her to her grandmother’s house, to another defiled body by the flowerbeds. She wakes soaked in sweat and with a heaviness in her chest.

The murders stop but the dreams continue, blurrier around the edges and harder to remember. When the killer strikes again, she begins to write them down.

-

No one is surprised she makes DSI but Stella can think of more than a few officers who are displeased with her advancement.

She misses her own office party, exchanges cheap red wine poured in paper cups and perfunctory congratulations for chlorine and sweat.

-

She looks at every picture and rereads every document the night before her flight to Belfast. Jim Burns rings five times and she ignores all but one.


End file.
